Page 11 of Slap Shot Daddies

Huddled in my car, trying to avoid an awkward encounter from a one-night stand like a teenager desperately evading a crush in a bustling high school hallway.

So much for being a professional.

I grimace, my lips tightening as I close out of the app. Those names and faces no longer hold space in my life. They belong to a past I’ve deliberately left behind. Just like I left him behind.

I shift uncomfortably in my seat, the vinyl creaking beneath me as memories of my ex rush in, unbidden and unwelcome. Ethan.

The silver-tongued charmer who persuaded me to move in with him during our vet school days, promising a semblance of anormal, stable relationship, until reality crashed down, teaching me the harsh lesson that love alone isn’t always enough.

We experienced the gut-wrenching loss of a baby together.

And then, inevitably, we lost each other.

I thrust the memory aside before it can tighten its grip on me, shaking my head as if to physically expel it from my mind.

That chapter of my life is closed.

I cast my gaze toward the entrance of the rink, watching the group of guys finally make their way inside, their boisterous voices diminishing as they blend into the distance. It’s time to focus on the task at hand.

Slinging my bag over my shoulder, I open the car door, and step out into the crisp embrace of the morning air, the chill invigorating against my skin.

It’s a new day. A clean slate.

I refuse to let my past dictate my present.

And I certainly won’t allow some self-assured hockey player to unravel the resolve I’ve painstakingly built.

At least, that’s the mantra I repeat to myself as I march determinedly toward the rink, each step echoing with purpose.

CHAPTER TWO

Braden

The crisp soundof skates slicing into the glossy surface of the ice resonates throughout the rink, accompanied by the rhythmic slap of sticks striking pucks and the sharp, commanding bark of the coach's orders.

The cold air, refreshing and brisk, envelops me as I launch myself forcefully from the blue line, my muscles coiled and ready, in pursuit of a loose puck that threatens to slip away before Reggie can snatch it up.

I reach the puck first, my blade cracking against the ice with a satisfying snap as I seize control, deftly maneuvering to dodge out of Reggie's grasp with a quick, practiced deke.

With a swift flick of my wrist, I send a tight, precise pass to Ambrose.

The new guy is proving to be a fast learner, quicker than I anticipated. He receives the puck on his stick with seamless precision, his hazel eyes narrowing with intense focus.

In one fluid motion, he pivots sharply and propels the puck toward the net with a powerful shot. The sharp clang of the puck striking the crossbar reverberates across the ice, a testament to a close call, yet just shy of a goal.

"Not bad, mate," Reggie calls out with a wide grin, gliding smoothly past Ambrose on his skates and giving him a hearty clap on the shoulder.

"Should’ve aimed higher," Ambrose mutters, rolling his shoulders with a slight grimace. His voice is gravelly, like rocks tumbling over each other, but I can sense the satisfaction beneath his words.

He’s a solid player, already proving himself to be a valuable asset to our team, and it’s only his second official practice with us.

His endurance is remarkable: likely honed by his ultra-marathon escapades on the side, which seem to fuel his boundless energy.

Coach's whistle pierces the chilly air, commanding us into another round of drills, and I launch myself forward, feeling the familiar burn in my muscles. It's a satisfying ache, the kind that comes with the grueling demands of a tough practice, each movement precise and powerful.

Hockey has always been my sanctuary, a place where I feel truly at home.

Yet lately, there's a creeping sensation, like invisible chains tightening around me, making it feel more like a trap than the freedom it once was.

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